I wake before Malik does. He's still asleep beside me, one arm draped across my waist, his breathing slow and even. Peaceful.
I carefully extract myself and slip out of bed, pulling on a robe. I need to move. Need to think. I move to the vanity, reaching for the hairbrush someone left there.
My fingers fumble, and it drops, clattering against the floor. The sound makes Malik stir, but he doesn't wake.
I kneel to retrieve the brush, and that's when I notice it—the floorboard where it landed sits slightly higher than the others. Uneven.
Curiosity pulls at me. I press down on the board, and it shifts. Loose.
My heart starts racing as I pry it up. Beneath, in the hollow space, is a bundle of letters. Old ones, the paper yellowed and brittle. Tied with a faded ribbon.
Hidden. Deliberately.
My hands shake as I pull them out. The handwriting on the top envelope is elegant, feminine. And the address—
‘To M. Most urgent. Regarding the twin.’
I untie the ribbon with trembling fingers, unfold the first letter.
‘The prophecy is clear. But I cannot choose which of my children to condemn. I won't.
Damon will thrive in court—they'll accept him without question. But Lyralei? They'll never truly accept a Queen. They'll undermine her, challenge her, destroy her trying to mold her into what they demand.
So I choose differently. I will hide her. Let her have a life without this burden. Even if it means she suffers in other ways. Even if she hates me for it.
Better she lives free than dies fighting a court that will never let her win.
—E’
I read it twice, my hands shaking.
My mother didn't think I was weak. She thought the court would destroy me for being a woman who dared to rule.
The next letter is shorter.
‘It's done. Lyralei is hidden in Shadowpine territory. The barrier will hold. But someone is already asking questions. Someone who shouldn't know she exists. They're searching for her.
I need to find out who. Find out why. Someone at court wants her found—and not to protect her. Or else it all would be in vain.
—M’
The letter falls from my hands.
"Kira?"
I spin around. Malik is awake, sitting up in bed, his eyes immediately finding the letters scattered around me. His expression shifts—concern, then something sharper.
"What is that?"
"Letters." My voice sounds hollow. "From my birth mother. Hidden under the floorboards." I hold one out to him. "She hid me because the court would never accept a Queen. And someone was already searching for me—when I was just a baby."
He takes the letter, reading quickly. His jaw tightens. "The King doesn't know about this."
"How do you know?"
"Because he thought you were dead. If he knew someone was actively searching for you back then—" Malik shakes his head. "Who's M?"
"I don't know." My hands shake. "But whoever they are, my mother trusted them. And whoever was searching for me..." I grab the letters. "They're probably still here. At court. Watching."
"No." He sets the letter down carefully. "I know nothing about this."
"Then we need to find out." I press my hands to my face. "Someone's been orchestrating everything—the false mate bond, keeping me trapped. And they're here."
His expression hardens. "Get dressed."
"What?"
"Get dressed. Now." He's already grabbing his clothes. "You want to feel sorry for yourself? Do it while you're training." His movements are sharp. "Because sitting here won't help you survive the blood trials."
The words hit like a slap. "I'm not—"
"Aren't you?" He turns. "Get dressed, Kira. We're going to the training yards."
* * *
The training yard is a circle of hell carved from packed earth.
Barely past dawn, just packed dirt, practice dummies, and weapons I've never learned to use. Malik doesn't ease me into it. Doesn't treat me like fragile princess.
Malik strips off his shirt without ceremony, and I try not to stare at the map of scars across his torso—each one a story of survival. His body is a weapon, honed and deadly.
"Shift," he commands, voice stripped of previous warmth.
Mira explodes from my skin before I can think, desperate to prove we're not weak. My silver-white fur catches the dying moonlight, but there's no beauty in this moment. Only anticipation of pain.
"Now defend yourself."
He doesn't give me time to prepare. His wolf—massive, midnight black, built for killing—slams into me with the force of a freight train. I hit the ground hard, dirt filling my mouth, his teeth an inch from my throat.
Dead. I'd be dead.
We train until the sun burns overhead. Until I can barely stand. Until dodging becomes instinct and attacking becomes natural. My body is a constellation of bruises, but something fundamental has changed.
He attacks again, but this time I don't just dodge. I meet him halfway, using his momentum against him. We collide in a tangle of fur and fury, and for the first time, my teeth find purchase on his shoulder.
The taste of his blood—copper and strength—floods my mouth.
We break apart, both panting.
He shifts back, naked and bleeding, grinning like a madman. "There she is."
I shift too, gasping, covered in dirt and sweat and his blood. My own wounds sting in the morning air. "There who is?"
"The woman who survived hell."He stalks toward me, and despite everything, heat pools in my belly at the predatory grace of him. "That's who you need to be in the trials. Not the protected princess. Not the hidden heir. Just Kira, who's stronger than anyone gave her credit for."
My throat burns with emotion. "You make it sound like I have a chance."
"You do." His fingers ghost over a cut on my arm, gentle now. "But only if you stop mourning the protection you never had and start becoming the weapon you need to be."
We train until the sun burns overhead. Until I can barely stand. Until dodging becomes instinct and attacking becomes natural. My body is a constellation of bruises, but something fundamental has changed.
I'm not just defending anymore—I'm hunting.
That night, I collapse onto my bed, too exhausted to move. Every muscle screams. Every breath hurts.
Malik appears in my doorway, back in clothes but still radiating that dangerous energy. "You did well today."
"You nearly killed me. Multiple times."
"But I didn't." He moves into the room, each step deliberate. "And neither will Damon. Not if you fight like that."
Everything crashes over me then—the prophecy, the trials, my mother's lies, the taste of blood in my mouth. A sob tears from my throat.
"I'm terrified," I confess, voice breaking.
"I know." He sits on my bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. "But fear keeps you sharp. Terrified warriors can still win battles."
"What if she was wrong? What if hiding me just made me unprepared—"
"Then you prove you didn't need protection." His hand finds mine, calloused and warm. "You'll prove them all wrong. The court, Damon, the prophecy itself."
A sob catches in my throat. He pulls me close, and I let the tears come.
When I finally pull back, his hand cups my face. "You're not weak, Kira. And you're not alone."
The fierce conviction in his voice breaks something open in me. When he leans in, I meet him halfway, our lips crashing together with all the desperation and determination of the day.
This kiss tastes like blood and promise, like tomorrow's bruises and yesterday's secrets. It tastes like home. Like the only real thing in this palace full of lies.
I kiss him back, pouring everything into it.
When we part, foreheads touching, breathing ragged, I whisper, "Three weeks."
"We'll use every second," he promises.
I don't know if it's enough time. But wrapped in his arms, tasting violence and desire on his lips, I finally believe I might be more than what my mother feared.
Maybe I can prove them all wrong.